


Without Absolution

by Eratoschild



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Catholic Rosary, Catholic priest AU, Church Sex, Cor in a cassock would be ridiculously hot, M/M, Priest Kink, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sex in a Church, Sin and Confession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-25 03:51:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17717525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eratoschild/pseuds/Eratoschild
Summary: He knew the man who possessed that voice, a sound that touched him in such a way that a man of God was never intended to know. The screening obscured his vision, but he could see the face as plain as day in his mind, jade green eyes gazing raptly up at him at the altar as he says mass, soft pink lips rounded into a thoughtful little “o” as the presence of God washes over him (or is it something far less holy?).





	Without Absolution

**Author's Note:**

> Written for IgCor week day two prompt "sin and confession". If you're uncomfortable with the idea of mixing sex and religion, this one is NOT for you. I've wanted to write some smut in a religious setting for a while so here you go...
> 
> For those of you who may wonder, Yes, Ignis absolutely is an adult here.

“Forgive me father, for I have sinned. It has been three days since my last confession,” recited the voice through the confession screen.

Father Leonis knew that voice, knew it well.

“Three days too many,” the parishioner added in a softer voice. Though unseen, Father Leonis knew exactly who was confessing. 

“Confess your sins then.”

He knew what was coming and held his breath.

“I’ve had the most impure thoughts. About another man.”

“I see.”

“What’s more, Father, he is a man of God.” 

“What exactly is the nature of these thoughts?” 

“Most unholy,” the parishioner replies quietly. “And yet I feel they bring me closer to God.” 

“Closer to God? How?” he wondered aloud. 

“Often when I have such thoughts, I am weak to resist pleasuring myself. But the thoughts, the sensations are like heaven and I can’t help but to call out God’s name.” 

Father Leonis’s throat tightened. He was overstepping confession protocol, he knew, and it wasn’t the first time.

Inappropriate and immoral as it may be, Father Leonis found himself concerned with how it became easier each time, easier to hear, easier to ask these details, easier to imagine himself doing such sinful things as his parishioner, who deliberately seeks him out, describes. 

He knew the man who possessed that voice, a sound that touched him in such a way that a man of God was never intended to know. The screening obscured his vision, but he could see the face as plain as day in his mind, jade green eyes gazing raptly up at him at the altar as he says mass, soft pink lips rounded into a thoughtful little “o” as the presence of God washes over him (or is it something far less holy?).

“And what thoughts might result in such an illusion of sacrament?” 

He listened carefully, unable to help himself as his parishioner reveals his thoughts.

“It’s no illusion to me but there are many. These last few days, the one that most haunts me takes place in a pew. But first, when mass is through and the church is empty I approach the altar and genuflect to the savior above and reflect for a moment on the service before turning my attention upon the priest. He is there, seeming to preparing the evening mass in advance, only notices me when I again stand. I thank him for the words of God today, for ushering me into His holy presence. His touch at first is innocuous, a hand on my shoulder, warm and gravid. He looks me full in the eye as we speak, such warmth and authority in them all at once. As our conversation closes the hand on my shoulder slides toward my collar. Soon his rough, calloused palm is warm against my neck and he draws me closer. I’m helpless to resist, the church says this is a sin all for the happenstance of us both having been born as men. But I could swear I’m submitting to God’s will as his lips take mine. I can still taste the communion wine in his mouth. The lingering trace of the blood of Christ intoxicates me, fills me with wanting. God surrounds us but only his intercessor can truly connect us.”

Father Leonis stifled a groan, this fantasy already the most profane and beautiful thing he’s heard so far from his parishioner. He waited for more, saying nothing just now, not wanting to appear to be encouraging such thoughts should anyone overhear.

Only seconds later, the parishioner speaks again, willingly. “He tells me to come with him so we might talk, and leads me to the frontmost pew. He bids me to enter first, I genuflect again, then kneel at the rail, he does the same. After a brief silent prayer, he sits directly behind me. As I start to stand to also be seated, his hands fall on my hips, silently directing me to say there, to sit beside him would mean too much distance between us. For a second I freeze, unsure. Then he shifts forward against me, whispers to me, his breath hot against my ear, “Do you have your rosary?” he asks. His knees spread to either side of me and he pulls me against himself. I nod, shuddering as I feel a distinct hardness slotting between my cheeks, evidence that this is no mere prayer session.

I take out my rosary and begin to recite the Apostle’s Creed as one of his hand finds its way between my legs, and I quickly harden under his touch, firm but gentle. I stumble over the name of the Virgin Mary but I keep reciting as his fingers move to undo my belt and trousers.

“Don’t stop,” he whispers. “Holy Scripture never sounded so beautiful.” As I begin the first our father, his hand slips inside, and I fear I will be lost but I state somehow, without falter, my belief in the Holy Spirit, the Holy Catholic Church, the communion of the Saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body and life everlasting, Amen.” 

Father Leonis failed to hold back a groan this time, his head falling with a faint _thunk_ against the wall. Only by virtue of clutching his Bible was he able to keep from palming himself as his parishioner continued.

“I knew what he wanted from me. I wanted to give it, and to receive what he was offering me. I keep a condom and a smallpacket of lube in my wallet, so I quickly took them out and discreetly showed them to the Father. “Kneel again,” he told me with a beatific smile. When I did, I could sense him standing behind me, adjusting his clothing. I heard a crackle and thesound of a hand sliding over wetness, I knew what was next.

He took hold of my hips like before and told me to stand, lowering my trousers. Were it not for the rail in place, I would have been on full display to the crucified savior hanging in front of us. 

Should I have felt shame? Perhaps. But I felt none as he guided me down again, slowly, slowly. The lubricant might not have been quite enough, but is there not virtue in suffering? It wasn’t too bad, I took him slowly so as not to injure myself but oh, he filled me like no priest is ever meant to fill another. 

He pulled me back against him so that he might speak in my ear and together we recited the Our Father, our voices coming in ragged over the words “and lead us not into temptation”.How laughable they seem now. I suppose that notion is another sin to confess.

His hips jerked up against me as I recited the Hail Mary. God, how perfectly thick he was inside me.” He paused just then, a note of regret coloring his words.” I did not intend to take the Lord’s name just now. For that I am truly sorry.” He took a long breath, letting it out before he continued, “My voice rose in pitch, I moved to stroke myself and he pulled my arms back, tutting at the idea of me touching myself in church. Oh yes, how naughty,” he added with a soft laugh.

How Father Leonis wished he could see his face just now, but he would have to settle for the pictures drawn in his mind. 

“I began to rise and fall upon him, slowly at first and then a bit faster. A part of me worried that someone may come in and discover us but no one ever did. He reached around to stroke me and oh how that calloused palm felt against my heated and overly-sensitized cock. I’d not last long, I knew, and just as I began to recite “Glory be to the father”, I broke, spilling hot and quickly over his hand, crying _Glory Be_ to the rafters as my body convulsed with release.

He stroked me til the end and just as I was coming down, just as I began to whisper _Hail Holy Queen_ , his turn came and he thrust hard into me and I cried out again. Father, I confess I’ve never so strenuously wished a fantasy to come true.”

_Neither have I._

“He held me against him, solid and strong. My body was nearly shaking. Just for a minute. Something hung in the air around us. I could swear it was God himself but the church says otherwise, calls this a sin, worse than any other, some say. But it was joyous, and it felt holy.

Father, I confess, but I cannot atone for I feel I’ve done no wrong. I may say Hail Mary’s and Our Fathers but I will think of that daydream while I do. I can offer no Act of Contrition, none that would be sincere at least.”

Father Leonis’s breath shakes. What can he do? He knows the parishioner who confesses now. He knows that he is the priest in the fantasy. This he learned some months back when hearing confession. Eventually coming to realize that he was sought out by the parishioner for this very reason he did nothing to discourage it. This he knew was wrong. But fighting temptation for the younger man confessing all his sins was here and more a losing battle each mass he gazed upon the bespectacled countenance from his post at the altar. How much longer could he fight those eyes, those lips, that voice? Something in his demeanor conveyed a greater air of innocence than this parishioner truly possessed.

Father Leonis took everything in, considered it carefully. At last, he offered a simple invitation. “Ignis,” he said, “you know I cannot offer absolution if you have no intention of offering contrition or penance.”

A pause, just a breath. “Nor do I ask for it, Father,” came the grave reply. He had clearly given this much thought. 

“If you change your mind you know what you will need to do.”

“I am aware, but I do not think that it likely.” Another pause, two breaths, three. “I do not think you wish me to either. DO you think I cannot hear you in there, the little changes in your voice, your breath? Do you think I cannot see how you look at me?” The words were unaccusing, merely questions.

No more words were spoken. He cold hear Ignis stand and leave the confessional. “Go with God,” he whispered. This was becoming more and more difficult, the temptation to do any number of sinful things to, with this other man. How long could he keep up this charade of hearing such lurid sins of a man he could not absolve?

He could not answer that question. He knew only that he continued to hear them because he wanted the man confessing them, so badly that he could practically feel hot, hard flesh under his fingertips when he reached out to empty air. It is a sin to covet. A sin to lust for earthly pleasures. And he a priest of the church. He had said his own confession only a few days ago but he supposed that it may be wise to do so again before the evening mass. 

“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned…” Another voice violated his thoughts as another parishioner came to confess. A woman. He turned to give the disembodied voice the fullest attention he could and did his best to put from his mind the quandary of that which he could not have save for fleeting moments on opposite sides of a thin screen and an insurmountable gulf of theology.

 

 

 


End file.
